


drop of rum on my tongue (with a warning)

by manticoremoons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, the iron man au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone so brilliant, Zayn Malik can be incredibly dense. Or: all the times Zayn Malik kisses Harry Styles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop of rum on my tongue (with a warning)

**Author's Note:**

> Someone posted this lovely [Iron Man Zayn/Harry](http://languiddreamer.tumblr.com/post/117508692535/au-iron-man) gif set. Then, I said [this](http://languiddreamer.tumblr.com/post/117514639885/prettymuchjustsomezain-magali-iron-man-zarry-au). Then Emmie said [this](http://prettymuchjustsomezain.tumblr.com/post/117515029463/languiddreamer-prettymuchjustsomezain). Then I said [this](http://languiddreamer.tumblr.com/post/117515588285/prettymuchjustsomezain-languiddreamer). Then I made these [embarrassing tags](http://languiddreamer.tumblr.com/post/117513516540). And then I wrote this prequel to those things Emmie and I said in the first place. And here we are. Very loosely based on the MCU versions of Tony and Pepper.
> 
> Title from Jaymes Young's ["I'll Be Good"](https://soundcloud.com/jaymes-young) merely because I was listening to it while I was posting this and well, it fits. All mistakes are my own, I did try to catch them but this was written in a flash (wrong comic book company but you feel me?).

The first time Zayn kisses Harry it’s more of a diversionary tactic rather than an actual expression of—well, anything really. Harry might as well have been a blank wall or a blow-up doll. All Zayn knew in the moment was that he was nursing a hangover the size of Big Ben and there was a woman claiming to be his girlfriend and demanding his time and attention—time and attention better spent doing important things like work—and Harry was the closest pair of lips, the only other pair of lips in the room.

It’s a nice kiss as far as non-kisses go. Zayn registers a soft mouth that tastes sweet as strawberry jam with a hint of coffee and not much else.

His not-girlfriend huffs and she puffs. “Wait a minute—you’re gay?”

Zayn doesn’t deign to respond to that tiresome question, merely bites his lip, and notes the faint taste of strawberries on his tongue from that kiss with Horace. No, Henry— _Harry_ and shrugs.

It’s Harry who looks between him and the increasingly hysterical woman, sighs heavily, and gently escorts her out while murmuring comforting platitudes in her ear.

Zayn makes a mental note to send her a gift. Flowers or perhaps a bit of jewellery. Nothing too fancy so she doesn’t get her hopes up, but nice enough that she at least understands there’s nothing there and she can hawk it for a tidy sum if she wants. She’ll probably sell the story to the papers. Zayn snorts at that. He’s been a daily fixture in _The Mirror, The Star, The Sun_ and _The Daily Mail_ since before he could legally drive—one more tabloid scandal isn’t going to hurt him at this point.

Henry— _Harry_ comes back shaking his head. He’s carrying the pile of provisional patent contracts Zayn had ordered up from Legal. His mouth is pursed in what Zayn assumes is disapproval. Or he might be suffering from indigestion. He dumps the sheaf on Zayn’s desk, the dramatics of the action somewhat muted because there’s only so much mileage to be had with flimsy paper—a cup of coffee or a heavy box would work better.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Mr. Styles?” Zayn asks, notching his reading glasses higher on his nose as he reaches for the top two memos in the pile.

Harry, who’d been in the process of stomping out of the office in a pair of dangerously pointy black leather boots, stops in his tracks and swivels around. “Yes, actually, Mr. Malik.” He’s got a deep voice, surprisingly deep with an edge of husk that makes Zayn sit up and pay attention in spite of himself. “What you did back there with that woman—was cruel.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, merely raises an eyebrow. Something that would stop most people in their tracks but only seems to spur Styles further.

“She _clearly_ had feelings for you. Like, proper feelings and you just—dismissed her, treated her like she was nothing. It’s not—well, it’s not very nice. At all.”

Zayn doesn’t think he should be amused. He’s never responded well to people scolding him or castigating him. Every nanny and tutor he’s ever had, knows that. But there’s something about this Henry—Harry Styles, and his crown of curly hair pushed back from his face, which is presently flushed with anger and disgust, his throaty voice stumbling over the words that makes Zayn smile a bit.

“I’m not sure why you’re laughing—there’s nothing funny about it.” The guy can't be more than two years younger than Zayn's twenty-nine. But Zayn feels like he's just been rapped on the knuckles by a schoolmarm. Which has often been one of his recurring adult fantasies. Except the 'schoolmarm' was always dressed in sexy French maid gear rather than the fitted trousers (very nice arse under those, Zayn does notice that) and the paisley (who even wears paisley?) shirt Harry's got on.

“I assure you Mr. Styles, that woman was not my girlfriend—she was an acquaintance at best—”

“An acquaintance whom you’ve been shagging on and off for the last four months,” Harry interrupts.

Zayn quirks his eyebrow again and Harry gives a slightly embarrassed shrug.

“What? I read the papers. She’s the latest in your run of blond tartlets according to The Sun.” He grimaces at the description. “Not that calling a woman a ‘tart’ for falling in with someone like you is right by _any_ means.”

Zayn leans back in his chair and watches Harry as he rattles on.

“I mean, it’s quite clear what she saw in you—it’s clear to anyone with eyes and a functioning cerebral cortex, really. But—it’s not right to lead people on. And what about the company name? These days, you’re more famous for your shenanigans in the sheets than being one of the most brilliant engineers of your generation.” Harry’s pacing back and forth, in a right strop now. He runs an agitated hand through those curls, ruining whatever force of magic was holding them in place so they spill across his face. “Your parents left you with a legacy and it’s sad—it’s _sad_ is what it is, to watch you fritter it away on blondes and booze and bad press.”

He pauses for breath and Zayn asks, his voice droll, “Are you quite finished?”

And as though his brain has finally caught up with the substance of his rant, Harry pops his mouth shut and looks at the floor. “Yes, er, sure,” he says with a short nod. "Sorry about that, um, I got a bit carried away."

Zayn stands up and walks around his desk, hands in his pockets. He’s always been a man for quick decisions. This one doesn’t even take him more than a second. His instincts, when he’s sober and of right mind (a rare occurrence) are always spot on.

“Right, I want you to move your things up from Legal. Your office will be right next to mine. You can take the next few days to close up your current assignments and pass them off to someone else, I’d like you to start here on Monday.”

  
“Um, sorry? Excuse me?” Harry chokes.

Zayn sometimes forgets that his brain works three times as fast as most people’s so he backtracks to explain. “Oh, sorry, I’m firing you from Legal and hiring you on as my personal…assistant? Associate? Hm… think of a title, get it put on your door.”

“I’m a trained lawyer, why would I want to stop doing that to be your _assistant_ of all things.”

Zayn shrugs. “Well, I mean, you could spend the next decade or so as a legal intern, a job you’re clearly over-qualified for, in the bowels of this company, just one of the horde of other interns. Or—you could bring your blunt honesty and critical thinking and eye for public image… _stuff_ as my associate-assistant-thinker person up here?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “You want someone to come up here and do your thinking for you?”

Tossing the idea about in his head for a moment, Zayn makes a duck-face and nods. “Yes, actually.”

It’s a ridiculous proposition, even Zayn knows it. And he’s half-expecting Harry to tell him to fuck right off.

“All right, I’m open to this idea—as long as I get a 200% raise.” He nibbles on his plush lower lip and adds a, "Please."

Zayn folds his arms across his chest. “50%.”

“150%.” So Harry’s definitely not an idiot. Zayn likes that.

“60%, that’s as high as I’ll go,” Zayn responds. He could give the guy a 600% salary increase from whatever he’s currently earning—it’d be pocket change to him anyway. But he keeps it up, mostly because he's always been a shit-stirrer and it’s fun haggling with Harry, who’s trying to look hard and firm but mostly looks like one of those pretty cherubs in the Sistine Chapel—just a bit more peevish.

“125% raise, Mr. Malik, plus additional benefits. And I’d like an office on the southeast corner of this floor.”

“Deal.”

Harry blinks as though he hadn’t expected it to be so easy. “Oh… well, all right then.”

“That was a remarkably detailed request on the office.”

“Well, I’m a big fan of yoga, the corner office is the biggest one on this floor, and it's empty so I wouldn't be putting anybody out of their space." He's a bit of a rambler, which Zayn finds oddly endearing actually. It's not that anything Harry says is daft or unimportant, he just takes his sweet time to get there. It's ... novel. Zayn's used to most people tripping over their feet and their tongues the second they're in front of him in an effort to impress him. "Besides, it would allow me to do my morning salutation with some lovely light shining through the windows.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a vegan hippie, too, underneath all that hair?”

Harry grins, and it’s a bit blinding actually. Zayn likes how it makes his dimples wink and just radiates around the room. He smiles back.

“I’m a lot of things, Mr. Malik. But right now,” he says, brusque and jarringly efficient. “I’m the person who’s going to make sure that you get to your ten o’clock press conference on the ground floor on time. It’s not nice to be late for people who are waiting for you. You also look hungover, so I’d recommend you drink that bottle of water your secretary left on your desk as well as the Panadol.”

Zayn hadn’t even seen the bottle of water or the Panadol, if he’s honest. He’s not always good at noticing little things like that.

“I’ll be back with your schedule for the day and some ideas, and my new contract shortly,” Harry says as he trots out, those ridiculous boots of his clip-clopping on the tiled floor. “And don’t forget to thank Julie for the water and the pills!”

Zayn saunters back to his desk, scratches at the back of his closely-shaved head, and picks up the bottle and the pills. He chuckles under his breath. He’s not even certain what just happened but he’s entirely sure that he likes it.

 

+

 

The next time Zayn kisses Harry is different.

Zayn’s all of thirty-five years old but he feels about a hundred. The ‘welcome back from the dead’ cocktail party Simon planned for him is in full swing in the ballroom behind him as he steps out onto the balcony of his townhouse.

It’s a cool autumn evening, the breeze just has that extra edge of chill that makes him tuck his hands deeper in his pockets and hunch against it. His hair flops across his face, still too-long after growing out for almost a year. He’s not yet had the heart to cut it off yet. It seems—a part of him now. Or the _new_ him. He likes the way it shrouds half his face, and makes him feel as though he can hide for a bit even in a room full of people.

The loud crack of a champagne bottle opening makes Zayn flinch. He inhales, his shoulders unsteady with it, and wishes not for the first time that he could just reach for a cigarette. Instead, he presses his left hand to the steel plating on his chest, a firm drum-shaped ridge underneath the expensive black silk of his shirt. He wore black tonight expressly because you couldn’t see the sick neon glow, but he can feel it well enough, the heated thrum of the one thing that’s keeping him alive.

“You know,” a familiar and welcome voice murmurs behind him. “All those people in there are here for you and yet here you are, out here.”

“Eh,” Zayn says, self-deprecating and wry. “They’re here for the free booze and good music—nice choice of band by the way, Emeli’s brilliant.”

Harry tilts his head in acknowledgement. “She is—and I know she’s one of your favourites. Very hard to book on short notice but I was able to call in a few favours.”

He comes to a stop next to Zayn. A tall, solid presence—warm and comforting. He nudges Zayn, a playful lilt to his voice as he says, “Your hair’s almost longer than mine, we’ll have to start a club.”

Zayn snickers. “What? Like the ‘long hair, don’t care’ squad?”

Harry giggles—actually full-on giggles, and Zayn lets the sound of it wash over him like a shower of fizz, sweet and joyful, utterly lacking in conditions or expectations. There’s nothing less complicated or scary than standing on this balcony with Harry by his side, laughing at his silly jokes.

Zayn had—missed Harry.

Missed is a fine word for it. He’s not sure he could describe it if pressed. He’d spent so long in a dank cave, fear gnawing at the insides of him until he thought he’d go mad with it. He _had_ gone mad with it for a bit, and he feels it still coiling up inside him, hot rage and fear and self-disgust.

But even in the middle of all that, he’d had time to think. To think about every single thing that was important to him. The things he could call his own. And in that cave, in the middle of a desert, as far away from everything Zayn Javadd Malik was—he’d had to face several home truths.

He didn’t have much of anything.

The company? It could always go on without him. There was a board and a trust and all sorts of protocols in place to ensure that it would go on. His properties, scattered all around the world, were all assigned to specific charities in his parents’ and sisters’ names in his will. All nice and neatly settled. There was money set aside for his staff, his pets, Ms Marjorie who’d run the corner shop on the street he’d lived on as a kid (she’d always given him sweets for free whenever he’d gone by with his mum, who insisted on shopping there for incidentals even when she had more money than Croesus). There was even a little pot for Harry with a silly note about that 600% raise he could have gotten if he’d stuck to guns a little longer that first day so many years ago.

So everything was sorted.

Outside of all of those things, what did he have? He’d thought about it long and hard and come up with two answers:

His legacy and his heart.

Now his legacy. He’d known that was in tatters. Not even Harry’s efforts to clean up his public image and make him a better person—the kind of person who thanked people for giving him bloody headache tablets—had been much help. He’d lived and he’d die Zayn Malik, “Bradford Bad Boi”, weapons expert, boy genius, and child-killer. All around the world, technology that he’d built, that he’d dreamed up had murdered thousands. Hell, millions of people. And stuck in that cave there was nothing he could do about it. To fix it. Make it _right_ somehow. Live up to the memory of his mother and his father and his sisters.

So perhaps it was that—the feeling of shame that had pushed him to… _try_ to find a way out.

But it was the other that had made him keep going even when it seemed impossible. _Harry_. With his stupid clip-cloppy boots and colourful shirts, that had only gotten more bizarre and elaborate with age. And his floppy hair. And his dimpled grin. And that laconic, utterly-Harry way he had of nagging Zayn to do better and be kinder and try harder. His awful banana-kale smoothies that he swore could cure any hangover (and that Zayn refused to acknowledge actually could). His horrendously loud snoring whenever the two of them went on long flights on Zayn’s private jet on some business trip or other.

Zayn, insomniac that he was, would spend most flights fearing for his life (flying had always been one of his least favourite things to do before he'd been forced to jet away from a prison cell in a glorified tin can) and writing down formulae for some new project he was tinkering on. Harry fell asleep like a baby any time he was in a moving vehicle, whether it was on the road or in the air. He wasn’t a quiet sleeper though—his snoring was the kind that could probably wake up an entire bloody building. But Zayn had missed it in that cave, bleak as it was. He’d have given _anything_ to hear Harry’s brash snoring really.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry cuts into his thoughts, his voice hushed.

Zayn looks up at him. He hadn’t realised they were so close. Like this, on the balcony, the music from inside muted, the lamps burning low and burnished gold, it feels a bit like they’re enclosed in their own small universe. He tilts his head back so he can look at Harry properly, take in the way his hair’s grown down to his shoulders, thick and full like some character in a medieval romance. He's wearing a black shirt too under his suit jacket, although his is sheer, delicate roses in garnet red clustered around the buttons, most of which are unfastened. It's fairly tame in comparison to some of Harry's fluffier shirts. Zayn likes it, likes the way he can see the swallows on Harry's chest peak out, the supple skin of his rib cage—he stops himself from going down that route and shifts his gaze upwards. Harry's eyes are a mossy green, nearly black in the dim, but wide open and earnest as ever. Looking at him, Zayn thinks he could probably spend the rest of his days trying, and not ever manage to create something he wants to _keep_ looking at as much. To keep unravelling and deciphering, like a puzzle that never gets old or boring.

Harry’s the limit. Or perhaps he’s infinite. Like Pi or something.

“Nothing too serious, Styles. Just wondering why you’re auditioning for the role of Fabio on some romance novel cover with that hair of yours.”

It’s easier, Zayn thinks, to joke.

Harry laughs. “I think if I’m Fabio, then you’re like some sort of Disney prince.”

“I’ll accept that—only if I get to be Aladdin.”

“You’ve got a deal,” Harry whispers.

Zayn’s not sure why he’s whispering, it’s not like anyone can hear them all the way out here. But he responds in kind, shifting closer. Just to make sure Harry can hear him, nothing more. “You made that too easy—expected a bit of a haggle.”

“Not everything has to be a protracted negotiation. I’m a very agreeable person.” Every word Harry says hits across Zayn’s lips and his cheek with a plosive of warm air. He trembles. But this time, it’s not from the cold or the startling sound of a bottle opening.

“You’ve never been agreeable with me a day in your life, Harry.”

And it’s true. It’s one of the things Zayn lo— _likes_ about Harry.

“Hm,” Harry concedes the truth with a lift of his shoulder. “That’s because I know you—and I know you don’t need someone to agree with you all the time. Or you’d get too comfortable and too lazy.”

“Thanks,” Zayn says drily.

“It’s true, you know. I’ve never been a pushy person. I’m _nice_ , I’ve always just been nice. But I don’t mind so much with you, pushing you.” His gaze drifts down to Zayn’s mouth. “Because I know you’ll push back.”

Zayn’s not sure when he forgot how to breathe. But he has. And his chest feels full because of it, like it might burst and his iron heart will just fall out and clatter at their feet.

Harry sways towards him and Zayn leans into it, meets him halfway.

It’s not even a real kiss at first. More a soft exchange of breath, like Harry’s literally breathing life into him. Zayn moves his mouth a bit to latch onto Harry’s lower lip and pull, just a little. Harry lets out a strangled whimper and ducks his head to deepen the contact, his tongue flicking out against Zayn’s, tentative as though he’s asking a question. Zayn nods, wordlessly, and brings his right hand up to tilt Harry’s head and push at his mouth, suck at Harry’s plump lips like his existence depends on it.

Harry’s hands are heavy and hot at the small of Zayn’s back. It’s funny, Zayn hadn’t realised how much bigger Harry is than him, only a few inches taller but denser in muscularity and broader in the torso. He realises it now. And the feel of Harry pressed against him, pulling him in close so every part of them is touching, is _everything_.

Zayn could do this forever. Fuck puzzles, fuck Pi, he could lose himself in this—Harry’s mouth, in Harry’s taste—in _Harry_ for a hundred years and never get tired of it.

Or want for anything more.

And that. That’s the reason why Zayn files away that feeling, this moment, that taste in some precious part of his mind and stops.

He steps right back from Harry with a twist of his mouth and says, cool and casual even though he’s burning inside, “Well, that was a nice reunion kiss, Styles. Glad we’ve finally got that out of the way, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s face shatters a bit. Nor does he miss the way he does too, on the inside. He wishes the iron casing around his heart would just fucking rust away and poison him if it would mean wiping that look off Harry’s face.

But it doesn’t. And he doesn’t take it back. He just bites his tongue and waits.

Seconds later, walking away from him, boots making a sad click-clack on the granite underneath, is everything Zayn’s ever wanted. But he’s not allowed to have that—not yet. Perhaps not ever. So he watches Harry leave him on that balcony. The wind rattles around him and settles cold in his bones. He turns around to look out onto his back garden, the treetops make monster shadows in the moonless London night.

“Right.” He nods, tries to ignore the way his eyes are smarting, and murmurs to no one in particular, “Right.”

 

+

 

The last—well, not the last, but perhaps the most important time, happens months later.

Harry’s falling. Falling from a roof at least 90 storeys high. And Simon’s doing what Zayn will later describe as a horrifically cliché “evil villain laugh” and daring Zayn to either fly after Harry or save the city of London.

Zayn doesn’t have to think twice before he’s shooting off that rooftop, following Harry’s high-pitched screams into the city below.

When he catches Harry, yanks him in close to the suit, he has to try not to faint from the very near heart attack he’s just had.

Harry’s not being helpful. At all. No, he’s still screeching his bloody head off. So Zayn raises his visor and kindly asks him to stop.

“Do you mind shutting up there, babe?”

And Harry does shut up. Less out of obedience (or that mythical agreeableness he once told Zayn about) and more out of shock.

“Zayn! What on—what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Well,” Zayn says as though he’s speaking to a dullard. “By the looks of it, I’m saving your arse from going splat on the street.”

“But—you’re—Iron—what?”

Zayn ignores Harry’s spluttering to make sure they land somewhat steadily on a roof far enough away that Simon’s become nothing but a large dot in the distance. His Iron Man suit had taken a beating from the showdown with the bots Simon built—using Zayn’s fucking tech—so the landing isn’t as smooth as Zayn would like it to be. They drop in a roll, and Zayn makes sure to absorb most of the impact, stopping on his back with Harry sprawled on top of him.

Harry doesn’t take long to sit up, straddling Zayn and effectively keeping him on the ground. “I cannot believe that you’ve been hiding this all along!” He’s talking—or rather, yelling faster than Zayn’s ever heard him do before, it’s fascinating to watch actually. “You’re—Iron Man. You’ve been running around London, putting yourself in danger, in that silly suit—.”

“Hey, I like the suit—I’ve been told red’s my colour.”

Harry screws his mouth sideways, and thinks about it seriously. “Well, yes, you do look quite nice in red but I’ve always thought royal blue was a great colour on y— _stop_ distracting me. You’re Iron Man, all this time, and you didn’t—.”

“Okay, babe, you can scold me all you want later but I kind of like have to go and save the city now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s—yes, okay, fine. Go and save the city and then can you please come back in one piece so I can shout at you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were going to be agreeable with me for once.”

Harry just sighs—it’s a put-upon sigh that Zayn’s gotten used to over the years. In fact, it’s a sigh that he’s often gone out of his way to provoke because the only thing he likes more than making Harry happy is irritating him. Mainly because Harry’s cute when he’s irritated, gets that sexy grumpy kitten-cherub pout thing going—which is a creepy description, but you have to see it first-hand to properly get it.

And then he bends over and plonks his mouth on Zayn’s. It’s a quick bruising kiss, a bit too stingy on the tongue in Zayn’s opinion, but potent nonetheless. He leans back—and his lips are a plum red, a little wet with spit, and far too kissable to be fair.

Zayn stares up at him dreamily. Because Harry’s just kissed him. And it’s only something Zayn’s been fantasizing about and wanking off to for the last however many months. Years if he's being honest with himself.

Harry looks deeply unimpressed by the whole thing though, and shoves Zayn’s steel-plated shoulder. “Well, don’t you have some super-hero-ing to do?”

Zayn grins. Because Harry hasn’t said it but he hears at least a sliver of forgiveness in that. Maybe just a shadow. Whatever it is, he can work with it.

“I’d be able to go off and super-hero if you’d get off me some time this evening, yeah?”

Hours later, after Simon’s been cuffed and locked up in a cell, waiting for some judge to hopefully put him away for the rest of his unfortunate life, Zayn wanders out of his bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist while he dries his hair with another.

Harry’s waiting for him on his bed. He’s wearing a dressing gown, his curls wet from his own shower and caught up in a bun at the top of his head.

“I’m very angry with you,” he rumbles quietly.

And Zayn was expecting it. He deserves it. But his heart sinks a bit anyway.

“I know.”

Harry takes in a deep breath and bites his lip. “But, I also wanted to thank you, for saving me and saving everyone.”

Zayn shrugs in acknowledgement. He’s not sure what to say. What he _can_ say in this instance.

Harry stands up and walks toward Zayn slowly. His robe is made of some sort of silky material that leaves very little to the imagination and Zayn really does do his level best not to leer at the deep ‘V’ of naked chest he can see, that butterfly on Harry's abdomen stark on his pale skin, and the faint impression of Harry’s dick because that would be inappropriate and he’s—

Well, he still isn’t allowed _this_ , is he? This is still not something that’s his for the taking. And he’s sort of reconciled himself to that being the case for the foreseeable future. And—

Well, and then Harry’s kissing him.

And Zayn can’t reason anymore. Doesn’t care to.

He reels back with the force of Harry’s mouth pressing into his. It’s a needy kiss, Harry’s teeth clacking against his, his tongue swiping into his mouth as he sucks like he’s trying to inhale every last bit of air Zayn’s got. Every last bit of Zayn there is.

Zayn can’t do anything but sink into it. He reaches up to hold onto Harry’s shoulders and pull him down until they’re practically burrowing into each other. Whimpering, he lifts up his leg to wrap it around the back of Harry’s thighs. Harry obliges the attempted acrobatics by lifting him up with remarkable ease and staggering forward until he can press Zayn into the nearest wall and hold him up against it.

Zayn arches away from the cold surface but Harry just pushes him back. Somewhere along the line, he lost his towel. He doesn’t much mind though. Who needs towels anyway when Harry’s thrusting his hips like that, his robe open so that his dick nudges against Zayn’s, thick and hot and heavy?

Drawing back for air, Harry nibbles his way along Zayn’s jaw. He nips at Zayn’s earlobe and whispers, “I’m going to fuck you." He presses a kiss on the tiny mole right at the curl of Zayn's right ear. "Then I'm going to do it again. And again." Another kiss on the curve of Zayn's cheekbone. "And then tomorrow, we’re going to talk—about everything, no lies, _no_ hiding. Yeah?”

There’s something deadly serious about the way Harry says it that makes Zayn shudder and nod in agreement. He likes this no-nonsense version of Harry. He likes all the versions of Harry.

“Y-yes, please.”

At this point he’d agree to any bloody thing Harry wants as long as he follows through on the first part of his promise. 

Harry snorts in amusement. “I think I rather like when you’re this agreeable.”

Zayn can’t even be arsed to bicker. He just grabs Harry by the neck and drags him in for another kiss.

There’ll be plenty of time for arguing later.


End file.
